Chapter 6
Moorhafen was exactly what she’d expected, and yet not entirely.
A hulking stone fortress rising on top of a hillside, its turrets and walls built to guard and watch.
Overlooking the moors, the fields, and the sprawling town beneath, it seemed sentient, watching.
The wet wind from the west brought salt.
Trisha’s lips tasted its tang, her nose recognizing its scent.
“The sea?” she asked Fjorten, who had ridden next to her while Blainor exchanged quiet words with Kaiden behind them. She pointed to the swell on their left where the tall grass swayed. “It’s beyond those hills?”
“Aye, Bard,” Fjorten said, scratching his beard. “Takes less than half an hour to walk to the shore.”
She nodded toward the rooftops and the plumes of smoke. “And what’s the town called?”
“Havbrun. We’ll ride through it to get home.”
She looked down at her hands. Home. What a foreign concept. She’d had none, not since the day she decided to find her parents. If she could even call it such. Firmly, she pushed the yearning away. “And your family, they’re waiting for you here?”
Fjorten slapped his forearm where he carried his marriage tattoo. “Aye, my spear-spined woman.” He nodded toward Blainor. “Sits at m’lord’s council. Steers him where others fail.”
“Counseling him sounds risky,” Trisha muttered. “She must have nerves like steel to tolerate the suffering.”
He shook his head with a mixture of incredulity and amusement. “Do all southern bards have such sharp tongues?”
Trisha opened her mouth, but Blainor’s voice cut through the slow thud of the hoofbeats. “You have a bard’s voice, Trisha an Tilia. It carries quite well.”
Bristling at his tone, she abandoned further attempts to antagonize him. He seemed to draw a line when it came to having his authority challenged too directly in front of his men, and there was a difference between being brave and being foolhardy. “Do you have children?” she asked Fjorten instead.
“Aye,” he said, raising three fingers. “Boys, all. With their sole purpose in life to whiten my hair.”
“Not too bad boys, then.” She chuckled, nodding toward his rich auburn head, seemingly untouched by worry and age.
A smile lit his face. “Not bad, no. Just mischievous, like all children are.” He fell silent, posture softening as he sighed, “I’ll be glad to see them, at the end of the day.”
Trisha’s throat tightened. Again, that same memory: a tug of a hand, pulling her forward. Come, Trisha.
She looked down, asking herself the same questions again. Was there something wrong with her? Was that why her parents had abandoned her?
The magic stirred within Trisha. You are perfect, it whispered. My bright-voiced tool.
Eyes closed, she guided its glow through her veins.
Dapple’s powerful muscles shifted beneath her, steady and stable.
Gravel rattled underneath the hooves, the insect din crowding the mild summer day.
Her magic and lyre, Dapple, and the road—all she’d had.
And now, perhaps something more. Moorhafen, the seat of Eichlandt’s Warlord, where she was to take her place as the Warlord’s Bard.
She’d find her family. At last, she’d get her answers.
It must have been twenty years since they gave her away. Would they still remember her? Her breath staggered, fear clenching her stomach.
What if they wouldn’t welcome her? What if they wouldn’t answer?
The low-built houses and roads of dirt and cobbled stones weaving through the town formed a compelling mishmash in which to lose oneself.
The people stopped their tasks—carrying hay, fixing roofs.
Fragments of children’s high-pitched voices reverberated: Skate fast, Lotte.
Ski fast, Klaes. The first snow is falling, and the ghosts are coming…
Skarr’s hooves drowned their song. He tossed his head and lifted his legs as if to announce the Warlord’s arrival.
Her sweet Dapple, having tolerated the beast’s antics for almost a fortnight, had his comeuppance. He subtly veered into the stallion’s way, moving just a touch closer to Skarr, and by doing so, brought Trisha into uncomfortable proximity with the Warlord.
“I’m starting to regret that I didn’t hold to my promise back at Isdet,” Blainor murmured after another almost-clash with Dapple. “Your irreverent horse is testing my patience.”
Her nostrils flaring, she yanked the reins. “Dapple’s a gentle soul, while yours is a sordid beast!”
He scoffed.
“I’d never forgive you if you harmed him,” Trisha hissed, green eyes narrowed into slits.
Blainor tilted his head. Then, a slight smile. “Seems I’ve found another bait.”
She fell silent, unable to decide whether to believe him or not.
“Starling… Have I made such a poor impression of myself that you’d entertain such a thought?” He glanced at her ash-gray gelding. “As spirited as your horse may be, it’s hardly enough for punishment.”
The words sat on her tongue, but her silence held.
A quick shift of his expression, subtle and difficult to parse. Blainor drew a deep breath. “I promise, Trisha. I won’t harm your horse.”
Something in his voice and gaze made Trisha avert her face. Dapple’s hooves clopped against the cobbled stones as she stared yonder, censoring herself still.
A ghost of the tension abandoning him, he straightened. “Once we’ve arrived, I’ll tell Senneth to get you settled.”
“Senneth?” Curiosity pulled her back to him.
“My seneschal.” Blainor’s attention lay on the road, the people, and the carts weaving through their path. A clucking sound of chickens echoed from nearby, and a dog bayed. “Should you need anything, let him know.”
“You’re very generous, my lord.”
“You expected I’d allow my bard to sleep in the stables?” he huffed. “Well, that can be arranged, of course.”
Trisha frowned, sniffing at her sweaty and dirty clothes. “A room and a bed sound heavenly, not that I dislike hay.” She patted Dapple’s neck. “But I think my horse appreciates it more.”
A sideways glance and a subtle twitch of his mouth came before the busy road demanded his full attention, the laughter and quiet conversation of his men following as they wove through the town.
Then they were beyond the town’s shadow, on a sandy track leading up the green hill to the granite fortress and its ringed walls.
She examined with unabashed interest Moorhafen’s thick embankment, the dark slits meant for archers, the battlement crowning the roofs and towers. Beyond the outer wall, two towers stood apart, and a third one, the highest, in the middle. Part of the main keep, she guessed.
The entire building exuded a cold and unyielding presence, the patches of moss on the stonework a testament to the centuries endured. Such preparations, Trisha supposed, were necessary in northern latitudes.
“The winters must be hard and long,” Trisha mused.
Blainor exhaled before answering, “They can get cold and definitely feel longer than they should.”
She tried to picture the landscape. “A lot of snow and ice, I assume?”
“Is there a reason for your intrigue with wintertime, Starling? Thinking about emigrating already?” Despite his light tone, an odd intimation drew her eyes away from the looming stone.
Blainor faced the road, leaning back in the saddle, but there was a slight tightness in his posture.
Her fingers wrapped around the reins. “No. This is just the northernmost I’ve ever been. The south gets snow. It merely never lasts.”
“Come winter, you’ll get your share of it. Though it’s not something I’d dwell on now, standing on the doorsteps of summer.”
They reached the moat and bridge leading through the raised portcullis. Hooves clipped against the wood, the murky water below still. Soldiers guarding the entrance pounded their chests as they passed. A slight nod from Blainor. They had arrived.
He led them through the lower bailey, people curtsying and bowing as they noticed him. An occasional gesture when someone caught his eye. Their retinue passed through the inner gate into the courtyard, where a group of people waited before the heavy, double-sided doors fortified with iron bolts.
On the lowest step, at the very front, stood an elderly man with frosted hair that billowed in the brisk wind like strands of brushed linen.
His features were sharp, his nose sharper still.
The dark green tunic was immaculately fitted, his leather boots pristine, the silver brooch at his cloak polished to shine.
Blainor leaped from the saddle, leaving his stallion to the waiting stableboy’s hands. His fur-covered cloak flapped in the wind, revealing glimpses of the dark scabbard by his belt.
“Master Dewingar,” the man said in a slightly nasally tone. He bowed. “Welcome back.”
“Senneth.” Blainor acknowledged him, along with a performative look around. “I see you’ve kept the walls standing in my absence.”
Senneth’s mouth thinned with a barely veiled irritation; his pale eyes gleamed like ice. “Crushing stone is not a skillset in my repertoire, as my lord knows.”
“No, I suppose not,” Blainor said. “Anything worth mentioning?”
Senneth’s pale gaze swept over the Warlord’s escorts, lingering on Trisha. Wrinkles in his face seemed more pronounced as he turned toward Blainor. “Notwithstanding the news from Graystein, which you may be better able to verify, my lord, only the usual.”
“I can hardly wait,” muttered Blainor.
“It’s only Annath, my lord,” Senneth said. “Old grudges. They’ll settle once the word gets around that you’ve crossed the border.” He paused. “Besides, the summer’s solstice is just beyond a fortnight.”